Black Pawl laughed at Spiess; and then he walked slowly past the man, toward the quarter-deck. He paid no more attention to Spiess; and when the man saw this, he wiped his knife on the leg of his trousers and thrust it back into its sheath. Then he looked at Red Pawl; and when the mate said nothing, did nothing, Spiess got down on his hands and knees and went back to his scrubbing.
The other seamen, who had been sharing this work with him, and who had sprung to their feet at the first hint of the tragedy, stood in a little whispering group now, watching. All had passed so quietly; there was no word spoken now. The ship was as still as death; for Death was hovering over the Deborah’s decks in that hour.
Black Pawl walked to the quarter; and the men saw a red stain spreading through the coat upon his back. He climbed the steps to the quarter-deck; he hesitated for a little, then turned aside and sat down on the deck, his back against the rail. Then his eyes half closed, and his head lolled on one shoulder. He might have been dead even then, for all seeming.
But he was not dead. His mind had never been so clear, so acute. His body was numb; but his brain was vividly alive. He felt no pain, felt no sensation except a warm, moist stickiness that spread down his back. Also it was a little hard to breathe. There was a bubbling in his throat, and something wet upon his lips; and when he touched his lips with a weak hand, the fingers came away red.
He saw this through half-closed eyes, still sitting there, head drooping on one side.
All had passed so quietly. This was the horror of it. There had been an instant’s scuffle, then nothing. The work of the schooner was going on now. Spiess was scrubbing the deck, not looking toward Black Pawl. The mate stood against the rail idly, as though nothing had happened. The little group of men by the mainmast whispered together, their faces white. They were the only jarring note in the peaceful scene.
Black Pawl was thinking. He was thinking hard and swiftly, considering what had been done, what must be done. His thoughts covered vast spaces in seconds of time. They were racing like trained runners.
He decided that he was dying. He would be dead very soon. So! Well, he was not afraid to die—not afraid to die, so he died with clean books. But—were his books clean? There was Red Pawl—his son.
Red Pawl had killed him. This was as certain and as true as though Red’s own hand had whipped that knife between his shoulder-blades. Red had encouraged Spiess; no doubt he had promised the man protection. If proof of this were needed, the proof lay in Red’s attitude now. If there were any innocence in the man, he would have struck Spiess down. Or—Black Pawl knew the mate always carried a revolver—he would have shot Spiess dead within a matter of seconds after the striking of the blow.